Reckless
by JuhFreak
Summary: Terry is exposed to the Scarecrow's antifear spray. While he exacts a more extreme vengeance upon Gotham's crime, Bruce scrambles for a cure.
1. Introduction

Knightvision #25: Reckless

**Story:** J'Freak

**Rating:** PG - violence

**Song:** "Passion," performed by Kutless, in their album Sea of Faces.

_Within my mind's eye,  
Flickering from the past,  
Come images that terrify and calm;  
A paradox in me._

**Notes:** This has been one of the most challenging BB fics I've ever written. It's been around for years, but until now, it's never had an ending. It did have a rather reputable beginning, in the TNBA episode, "Never Fear." The episode's message was simple but clear, as Batman said briefly, "A _little_ fear is a good thing." The message of this story is like that… but…just a little more complicated.

"_Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth..."_  
--_Isaiah 54:4_


	2. The Gloves Come Off

**OLD TOWN  
STORAGE HOUSE**

In condemned apartments where eight or more families shared a single bathroom, parenting was the least of Old Town worries. There was survival to be taken into consideration. Bills to pay, gangs to avoid, radioactive supervillain blasts to dodge. Life was tough. If the kids were going to act up, well then the kids could just take it elsewhere. Better to disown a child than be left to deal with his problems.

It wasn't uncommon for a drug-addict to be turned out, in order to spare the younger siblings from their bad example, and this was fine by everyone involved. Even the addict himself surmised he'd rather sleep on the sidewalk than in a one-room apartment with disagreeable relatives. Better to find safety in numbers with the local gang, than to be attacked by the same people. It was a reign of fear in a lawless world, where pleasures were brief and fleeting, and even love-making was mechanical. Gotham's children were dead as they walked --- and to top it all off, they were bored with it all.

Heaven help those who might entertain them.

"Got it."

The voice was deep, rougher than the average teenager's. The muscular frame in the window was easily a twenty-year-old's, his hairy arms lowering a crowbar to wedge away the rotting boards that crossed the broken window frame. They fell with a clatter. Now he was crawling into a dark, stuffy warehouse, its dust seeming to whisper, _Condemned. Condemned_.

"Come on, we're clear."

Following him was the shadow of a leggy girl in a skimpy dress, and then a boy with slicked hair and a tight jacket. Another burly fellow, almost too large to fit through the window, was close behind. He grunted as he squeezed into the warehouse. The last to enter was the smallest of the five, a boy in baggy jeans and a harlequin hat.

"Hurry up, twip!" hissed the boy with slicked hair.

While Skinny hopped down from the windowsill, his foot caught on a nearby box. He tripped, and the box slid across the floor, contents rattling. The noise echoed loudly through the building, and everyone cringed. One of the big men clamped a hand around the perpetrator's throat, lifting him off the floor.

A flashlight flicked on. The beam caught the startled face of Mubelle, pure white with red circles painted on her cheekbones, a pink flower tucked behind one ear. She blinked and raised a gloved hand. The slick-haired boy was J-Man, his face equally pale and his coat a loud purple. He turned away with a grumble. The big black man's arm was still hooked around the smallest clown's neck. A bit tightly.

"Quit messin' around," Scap sneered.

Trey dropped Coe, who stepped back and bumped shoulders with J-man. J-man straightened his jacket with a superior expression, and marched deeper into the warehouse.

"Slag, Coe," Mubelle hissed as the gang spread out.

"I'm sorry!" he said defensively.

"Yer a real pain..."

Scap aimed his flashlight in their eyes again. "Quiet," he ordered. "Cops circle this neighborhood, and we don't want 'em to hear. Just find something that might be worth stealing."

"Try this." Trey stepped into the light carrying a huge crate in his arms. As he bent to set it down on the floor, J-man grabbed Scap's crowbar. He braced his foot against the box and, after a moment of grunting, wedged the lid open.

They gathered to peer inside. Mubelle bent over with her hands on her knees. "What ah they?"

"They're bottles," Coe said.

He was instantly punished by a riot of jeers. "Duh!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Cringing, he shuffled closer and lifted one of the bottles from the box, staring at the label blankly. "Wonder what's inside."

J-man snatched the bottle from his hand. "Well, let's let someone who can _read_ take a look, shall we?" He turned so that Scap's light fell upon him, and with much flourish, began to deliver the bold-lettered title. He soon faltered, however, and from then on his reading was a clumsy stammer, soon trailing off in embarrassment.

Scap leaned over his shoulder and read the long word with flourish. "It's a chemical."

"Is it poisonous?" Coe asked.

Mubelle elbowed him hard. "_Duh_ dreg, _oll_ chemicals eh poisonous!"

"No they ain't," Trey stated in his calm, deep voice. "Your brain is full of 'em, fool."

"I don't see any poison marks on it," J-man said. He looked at Coe suddenly, and grinned. "Dare you to drink it!"

"Yeh, Coe," Mubelle said with a nasty smile. "_You_ find out."

All eyes were on Coe now. The boy's eyes darted from one white face to another. "Um, I don't…"

"Whatsamattah?"

"Yeah, Coe, drink it."

"_You _drink it," he countered, edging back.

J-man grinned at Trey, eyes darting to Coe mischievously. "Say, old friend, you aren't going to leave, are you?"

Trey's long arm jerked Coe from his feet again, drawing him into an inescapable wrestling hold. J-man giggled expertly, a bubbling sound that had contributed to his high position as a Joker. He was unscrewing the bottle cap. "_Drink_ it!"

The bottle plunged into Coe's mouth. He couldn't turn his head away --- Trey held it firmly. He squirmed. Nothing worked. J-man even massaged Coe's neck to force the fluid down. Coe choked presently, sputtered and coughed, the liquid streaming down his chin. He kicked madly at the air, but J-man only stepped aside.

There was no relent. Not until the bottle was empty.

"HAH!" J-man tossed the empty glass across the warehouse. It shattered in the darkness.

Trey dropped Coe, who fell to his knees, still coughing. They waited. He didn't stop. He only wheezed and gasped violently as if his throat had closed against the drink. There was more coughing, his whole body shuddering with the effort. Finally, Coe collapsed stomach-down on the concrete.

Plastic grins watched the scene coldly--- just watched, until all movement had ceased in his body. There was a drawn-out silence. They stared at him, and at each other.

"Hey, little man," J-man called, nudging him with his foot.

Coe's eyes opened wide, and he gasped. They flinched as they watched those eyes focus intensely. Coe's gaping mouth closed for a tight frown. He pushed himself up, and climbed to his feet. His body shook with rage.

"How do you feel?" Scap asked, smirking. He had never moved from the crates he'd been lounging against.

"Different," Coe said.

J-man, compulsively straightening his jacket, snickered again. "Well you certainly took it like a man!" He laughed wildly, and the others joined in. Coe grimaced with fury.

A loud smack knocked them all silent. The gang blinked to see what had happened. J-man was stumbling backward, one hand covering his face. Blood gushed from his nose.

Coe's fist was still poised.

"Coe?" Mubelle asked in astonishment.

"I'm not afraid of you anymore," Coe told them.

J-man wiped the blood away. "I'll make you afraid!" he said, his voice guttural.

Coe smirked. "Doubt it."

With a primeval snarl, J-man cleared the distance between them. The boys fell to the floor in a tangle. J-man threw his best punches, but this time, for the first time that any of them could remember, Coe was fighting back. He was still weak and inexperienced, but J-man could sense the change in demeanor. It was _determination_. That final act of humiliation, the drinking of the chemical, must have been the last straw.

"Cut it out!" Scap said, looking annoyed. When neither boys listened, he approached and pulled back J-man by the collar. "I said, cut it out! Someone's gonna hear."

J-man seethed at Coe. His fake grin was ominous now. "Just wait. I'll show you fear, Coe."

Coe was still lying on the floor. He looked far worse-off. His face would soon be swelling, and his mouth was so bloody that they could barely see his teeth. But his eyes--- they stared just as hard as before. Fear? He seemed to have forgotten its meaning. There was only anger here.

The boy spoke through thick lips. "Gimme yo best shot."

Smiling spitefully, J-man rolled up his sleeves, relishing each second. "Oh, you're gonna regret this!"

"I give up." Scap walked deeper into the warehouse. "I'll be over here, looking for goods. Don't blame me when you wake up in the slammer…"

"No, _you're _gonna regret this," Coe was saying. "I'm not takin' any more slag from you guys. And Mubelle? No more hiding for us. I'm telling. I'm telling everyone!"

Tray's eyebrows shot up. J-Man's mouth dropped open. As for Mubelle, she looked as if she'd just sat on an electric livewire, but her disbelief was quickly replaced by malice. She brandished a rubber chicken, the spikes clearly visible. "Oh, you are so dead, Coe!"

"Telling what!" J-man demanded.

As he pushed himself up, Coe broke into a grin, angering them further. "What's the matter, J-man? Does it _scare_ you that your girlfriend has a secret?"

Mubelle and J-man both fell upon Coe. They were beating him with all their strength, letting out fearsome cries of rage and bitter, derogatory names. Coe had no chance to resist or lash back. Kick after kick pummeled his ribs.

"Someone's going to hear," Trey said, looking down at the three struggling bodies. When he received no response, he picked up both Mubelle and J-man by their necks, forcing them aside. For a while they tried to fight him… before they realized that their arms were too short to even graze his formidable body. Panting, they stopped, and the three of them looked down at Coe.

The boy twitched slightly. He didn't seem to have the will to move, if he was even capable of moving. Perhaps he wasn't even conscious. A faint, wheezing breath could be heard.

Trey picked up the crowbar. "Let's end it."

He raised his powerful arms, homing in on Coe's skull.

_Clang!_ Trey jerked. The collision, whatever it was, had been so violent that it had broken his grip, sending the crowbar spinning into the darkness. Its clatters echoed to silence.

"Can't let the creep get killed," a voice muttered, sounding irritated. Then the owner of the batarang jumped in front of Trey. It was a freak like them, but in black, his fixed expression a glare rather than a grin. "Anyone up for a _real_ fight?" asked he Bat.

"Try _this!_"

Trey swung a burly arm. Batman ducked. His fist disappeared into his opponent's stomach, causing Trey to cough and double over. The big Joker wasn't fazed for long, however, and he still managed to swing his other fist. Batman caught it in his hand. One twist sent a streak of pain through Trey's face, and then, he was hurled aside like a doll.

Glass crashed against the floor. As Batman whirled on the other Jokers, another bottle shattered against his chest. Its contents trickled down his suit.

J-man and Mubelle crouched behind the crate, reaching for more bottles to bombard him. One batarang knocked the chemicals from Mubelle's hand. In the same second, Batman charged J-man, knocked him onto his back, and flipped to land upright in one motion. J-man remained dazed on the concrete floor. Batman kicked Mubelle in the jaw.

Two more down. Coe still not moving. Tray, unseen…

A click! Batman whirled again--- he was facing a blaster. He had not noticed this fifth Joker. The ear-splitting laser fire commenced not a second later, mercifully misaimed enough for Batman to dodge them. He ran straight up a shelf and then jumped to the next row. Scap's lasers followed close behind, a stream of them igniting the spilled liquid on the floor. The resulting fire released a white cloud into the air, blocking the enemies from sight.

The rank fumes rushed into Batman's lungs, stinging, making his throat swell. He coughed violently. Trying to keep more from coming, he raised a limp arm over his face. His body fought to expel the vapor from his system.

Through the haze, he could see Scap approaching. For some reason, the big Joker was unaffected by the gas. As he drew nearer, Batman saw why: a handkerchief covered Scap's mouth and nose.

The blaster rose again. A batarang knocked it away. Batman was recovering now, growing accustomed to the stink. As he absorbed his surroundings in that moment--- the groaning enemies, the one before him still standing ---he suddenly wondered why he'd entered this fight just to save that bloodied loser on the floor.

Suddenly, it no longer mattered who survived this encounter.

Mubelle and J-man were rasping at the edge of the cloud, trying to climb to their feet. With a short boost from his rockets, Batman soared to the top of the crates towering above them. He upset it easily, causing a few hundred pounds of storage to rock and tilt. He heard a pair of screams, before a sound of crashing and cracking cut them short.

Trey was on his feet. Batman jumped from his perch, straight onto the Joker's broad shoulders. Trey's knees buckled, and his head struck the concrete floor.

"That one's out of the game," Batman muttered.

Now there was no sound, no immediate attack. He calmly scanned the warehouse for that last remaining Joker. A thinning haze of white still billowed around him, but he finally caught sight of Scap on all fours, feeling around in a frustrated manner. He was looking for his blaster, of course. And it was nearby.

Batman advanced through the smoke and kicked the weapon out of reach. His fist clamped over Scap's shoulder, yanking him to his feet, where the man immediately received several high-powered supersuit blows to the torso.

Batman paused. He held up one finger for thought… and Scap crumpled, unconscious. Batman shrugged. "Don't blame me when you wake up in the slammer."

He looked up again. No enemy standing, no guns swinging toward him, but only a heavy silence as the haunting vapor cleared. All was still, save Batman's breathing. Small fires burned amongst the debris, consuming what was left of that chemical. For some reason, Batman was no longer aware of the pungent smell or the stinging reaction. Not that he cared.

A deep voice spoke in his ear. "Mediocre," it said. "You could have been neater."

Bruce's reprimand. Ever present, no matter the situation. Terry sighed. "They're just a bunch of punks," he complained. "Nobody cares."

"Punks like you, you mean."

He bristled. "Hey, shut up!"

"Put out the fire," Bruce said, equally irritated. "And check to see if those two under the boxes are alive."

"I'll let the cops worry about it. Call them, just in case they didn't hear all the screams and gunshots," Terry said dryly. He opened his wings and glided across the room, out the window.

"Terry!" Bruce snapped.

As he rose above the buildings, Terry fiddled with his cowl. The radio went silent. Contentedly, he soared on in search of a new enterprise.


	3. Idiocy Loves Company

**LATER**

**CITY STREETS**

Nelson had rolled back the top on his bright red sports car, allowing the night air to rush over them. As he and his buddies cruised the streets, the sound system dealt out a local metal station, and the boys conversed by yelling over both the music and the cold wind.

"So I've swung the locker door into his face, right?" Nelson chortled as he related the latest in twip torture. "Poor little Howie Groote is holding his nose and trying not to cry. I'm all 'OOPS, sorry buddy.' Guess who taps me on the shoulder?"

His cronies, one in the passenger seat and one in the back, waited for the answer. Nelson drummed his hands on the steering wheel, taking a deep, dramatic breath… "Terry McGinnis."

The boys groaned and laughed. They sent each other knowing looks. The Nash-McGinnis saga continued.

"He's sticking up for Groote. As if _he_ never picked on the local losers. I asked him what he was going to do about it. He came up with some comeback which basically meant, 'Nothing. Nothing at all. Feel free to slug me now.'" Nelson paused to shrug, and maybe glance at the street. "So I did. Of course, everyone was looking, and all he did was hold his stomach and glare at me. Cuz he's a good boy now."

"He's afraid of you," one cronie said.

Nelson laughed, and smacked his buddy's head. "Duh."

"I'm _bored!_" the other guy complained. "This stinks, Nash. We need girls."

"Coming right up." Nelson made a turn, perhaps more wide and flourished than necessary. So what if a few other cars had to slam on their brakes?

The next street was rocking with techno, several beats at once that clashed grotesquely with Nelson's radio. As they coasted along the sidewalk, they studied the elaborate dance hall before them, keeping their eyes open for any female forms in the neon. Nelson whistled shrilly. A pair of girls glanced up.

"Hey ladies, you look lonely!" Nelson said suavely. "Need a lift anywhere?"

The girls exchanged glances. They drew a little closer, sardonic looks on their faces. "We don't even know who you _are._"

"I'm Nelson. Nelson Nash."

"Gary Thompson." Gary blew a kiss from the passenger seat.

"Rick Mullin," said the guy in the back.

"And now you know us."

The girls smiled to themselves and shifted into more striking poses. "I'm Blaze Welsh," said one girl, revealing her heavy hackney accent. "This 'ere's Samantha."

"Samantha Jordan," her companion was quick to add.

"Well, ladies. Hop in."

Samantha quickly climbed into the back next to Rick. Gary protested. "Uh, problem. This car only seats four."

Nelson smirked at him.

Gary stood on the sidewalk as Nelson's car roared into the night. He screamed after them, running in pursuit, but soon they had disappeared. He slowed to a stop on the curb, cursing. Onlookers laughed.

Nelson cut off a truck at an intersection, guffawinig at the blaring horns and squealing tires in their wake. Beside him, Blaze threw her head back, arms outstretched. "C'mon!" she shrieked. "You can go faster than _thet_!"

"Haha!" Nelson braked and twirled the steering wheel. They skidded toward an empty street, rolling onto the sidewalk momentarily before hitting pavement again. On the wrong side of the road. Nelson wove back and forth, just because he could.

Blaze cranked the radio, and they all belted the lyrics as the car went kamikaze.

_"And I'm only gonna live once! And tonight is just one night!"_

A sudden crash! The radio died, heads whipped forward, bodies lurched. Panicking, Nelson hit the brakes in confusion. There had been nothing! The street had been totally empty! He couldn't see anything! The world was all darkness and squealing tires which, slowly, slowly--- jerked them to a stop.

Bewilderment lingered. It took some squinting in the low light to see...

The front hood had been badly dented. By a pair of feet. Gaping, the four teenagers stared up at the embodied darkness looming over them, a black figure with chilling white eyes.

From his vantage point, Nelson glimpsed a pair of sharp ears backswept against the moon. His lower lip trembled. "Wha… th… no... way…"

The windshield cracked suddenly. Those in the car flinched, and when they looked again, Batman had disappeared. He'd left a gift behind, however. A batarang embedded in the glass. There was a faint beep, accompanied by a red light in its center. It flashed again. And again. Faster. Faster. Faster!

"AaAaAugh!" Nelson screamed and leaped from his car. He hadn't even bothered to open the door.

"Let's go!" Blaze, Rick, and Samantha scrambled out after him, dashing across the street.

Exploding thunder! Flying glass! The car met its demise in a burst that bleached the street white. That, and the accompanying heat, passed quickly, leaving behind a flickering glow. The empty shell of Nelson's car lay desolate in the street.

"Noooo!" Nelson cried. Stumbling, disbelieving, he ventured into the street again, staring at the wreckage. He sank to his knees. "Not AGAIN!"

Blaze and Samantha couldn't help but stare at the fastest demolition they had ever witnessed. Amidst Nelson's crying and the roaring flames, Blaze found herself snickering. Then she broke into a gush of thrilled, excited laughter. Samantha slapped her.

High above, Batman watched from a building's ledge. He smirked and flew away.


	4. Outrageous

**ONE HOUR LATER  
THE BATCAVE**

In the quiet of the cave, an old man tapped his fingers on a coffee mug. Bruce Wayne wasn't really aware of this as he stared at the giant computer above him. He was, however, aware of the time, and aware that sooner or later Terry would be forced to restore contact with him. If anything too terrible happened, the boy would surely report it. For now the radio remained off-link. Sooner or later…

Bruce didn't like it. He hadn't stopped fuming about the lack of finesse back at the warehouse. All of the Jokerz had been critically wounded. They were hopefully recovering in the hospital now, after being rescued from the fire Terry had failed to put out, which had quickly gotten out of control and destroyed three buildings. Oh, the lecture that boy would receive.

In the meantime, Bruce hacked some police files and read the most recent reports. Hopefully he would find a case worth pursuing. Unfortunately, the worst he could find--- and that, at best, was laughable ---was the typical "local legend" garbage.

"Blowing up a car," Bruce muttered. "Indeed."

It was simple. This had been the boy's third car in a year. Rather than take responsibility for the accident, he was blaming Batman. Bruce skimmed the rest of the report in disgust, but stopped suddenly. The boy's name... it was familiar. Nelson Nash? Bruce probed his memory. He remembered that boy, a bully who had contributed to driving Willie Watt over the edge.

In fact... hadn't Terry said something about a grudge?

"No. That's outrageous." Bruce closed the file and leaned back. He knew Terry could be irresponsible, but this was far worse. Stupid. Crazy. It couldn't be true.

His fingers drummed faster on the coffee cup.

He didn't want believe it. He seriously doubted it; but he had to take it into consideration. After all, anything was possible. There was that one chance, and it would bother him until he investigated. Yes! _That_ was reason enough to switch on the Batsuit's tracer.

**DOCKING BAY  
WAREHOUSE**

Sweat trickled down the man's forehead. He swiped at it with one hand. The other was just as sticky, gripping a trigger precariously. The illegal immigrant pressed his back to a tall crate packed with smuggled belongings. His ears strained to hear...

"Ooof!"

A distant grunt, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. He remained where he was, crouched amongst the boxes, afraid even of his own breathing. It could give him away…

Footsteps echoed slowly, deliberately through the big docking house. A sneering voice shot ice through the hiding man's heart. "So you decided to move to our country, huh? The land of the free, home of the brave vigilantes. Oh… I guess they don't warn you about us on the Web site, do they?"

The immigrant swallowed. He tightened his grip on the weapon, made an estimate, and jumped out to fire. Angry thunder filled the air, but did no damage. In an instant, a sharp object pierced his hand. The gun fell. A nightmare was attacking him, slamming his back against the wall. The face of the Bat was inches from his, with eyes that could make a war general cringe. Most frightening of all was the cocky grin on his face... as if he enjoyed the suffering he caused.

"Don't worry," Batman whispered. "This will only hurt for a second."

Claws sprang from Batman's free hand. They were poised only inches from the immigrant's exposed stomach.


	5. The Thrill is Gone

**THE BATCAVE**

Bruce decided he wasn't waiting any longer. He overrode the radio's controls by remote and switched them on. "Terry."

The response seemed annoyed and… much louder than usual. "What!"

Bruce blinked. "What are you _doing?"_

**WAREHOUSE**

Batman put his claws away and tossed the man to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and ran into the shadows, cursing the crazy bat.

"Nothing important," Batman said sardonically. He raised his voice. "Hey, don't forget your gun on the way out!"

Bruce was incredulous. "Who are you talking to?"

"No one, he's gone. Now what do you want, old man?"

If Bruce had hesitated before, he didn't now. Abandoning all tact, he asked bluntly, "Did you _blow up _Nelson Nash's car?"

"Yeah, why?"

A stunned sputter. "Exactly, Terry! Why?"

"Oh, relax. Nobody died, unfortunately," he quipped. "You think anyone would have been too shaken if he had? Trust me, Bruce. He deserved it."

"_That _was your _reason?"_

What was that drumming sound? Oh, probably Bruce's fingers on the coffee cup again. That meant he was antsy. Terry shrugged. "Should've known you wouldn't understand. Oh well, what're you gonna do about it? Oh, that's right. Nothing."

"Terry. Have I ever mentioned there are certain rules of conduct?"

"Have I ever mentioned you're full of slag?"

Terry wished he could see Bruce's face during that indignant pause. "What?"

"Get over yourself, old man. You're history."

"What's gotten into you tonight?" Bruce asked harshly. He was _really _angry _now._ "You're ten times more brash than usual. And I can't begin to find words for your current work!"

Terry only laughed, lightly, as he strolled out of the warehouse. He spread his wings and jumped, gliding over the docks on an ocean breeze. "Relax," he told Bruce. "You may be worried… like you always are… but I've never felt better. The guy with the power can do whatever he wants, you know that. It's not like the law can punish me."

"I'm sorry you got that impression." Bruce raised his voice. "There are certain absolutes, right and wrong---"

"Prove it."

"When did this attitude suddenly emerge?" Bruce inquired.

Terry scoffed and dipped one wing, leaning toward the city now. "Who cares? All I know is, I'm not afraid of _anything_, including your judgment." He looked down at a highway, quite a distance beneath him, and smiled at the sudden thought that entered his mind. He turned on his vid-link. "Watch this."

He threw his wings back, and they folded. He was an arrow now, shooting straight downward. The cars beneath seemed to race increase speed, as did he. The air rushed over his cowl in a roar. Still, he didn't even feel his heart rate excel. Anyone else would have been screaming in terror, but somehow he knew that even if he had been without his wings… nothing would have mattered.

He was there! Terry banked at the last moment, soaring over a car to land on the hood of a delivery truck. It swept him down the highway.

"The thrill's gone," he said with some sadness. "Half the fun is in facing fear, you know, but now there isn't any. Hah! Oh well. There's still another half of life, the fearless half, that I haven't explored. With my fear gone, I guess I'll finally be able to..."

"Terry, come back immediately." Bruce had a dark tone now.

He laughed again. "Hey! I have a busy night ahead of me. What're you gonna say there that you can't say now?"

"Just do it. I'll explain when you arrive."

"Make me."

"I _can't_ make you," Bruce said slowly. The admission seethed through gritted teeth. "That's… why… I'm _asking_."

Terry liked that answer.


	6. Max's Dream Almost Comes True

A/N: Sorry! I tried to update like a week ago, but it didn't seem meant to be. Here we go, now... settle down... it's starting.**  
**

**LATER  
GIBSON RESIDENCE**

WUMPH.

"Rise and shine!"

"Mmmm!" Max curled her legs under her, only closing her eyes more tightly.

"Max! C'mon, time to seize the day."  
"Terry!" she growled, throwing her pillow at him. "_What_ are you doing here?"

"I let myself in all the time, remember?"

"Not in the middle of the--- hey!" Max gasped as he yanked the blanket away from her, revealing her in nothing but a loose T-shirt and blunt biking shorts, not to mention the lime cream she'd smeared across her face before going to bed. Stumbling toward him, she snatched her pillow from his arms, just to hit him again.

"It's not the middle of the night," said Terry, completely ignoring the pillow swings. "It's five fifty-five. Your sister just left."

Max paused and looked over at her alarm clock. Then she hit him again. "You jerk! I could have slept for five more minutes!"

"Aw, wow, poor Maxine lost five minutes of sleep. I couldn't imagine what _that_ must feel like."

Max paused. She realized he probably hadn't slept at all. With a roll of her eyes, Max walked back to her bed to switch off her alarm. She gathered the blanket around her and sat down. "Okay, so why are you here so early?"

Terry laughed again. It seemed strange somehow.

"The greatest thing that's ever happened to me," he explained. "I got exposed to this old gas. Wayne says it completely eradicated my fear."

"Really?" Max licked her hand and tried to flatten her hair into submission. "That's great. Though, seems to me you were already pretty brave."

He shook his head. "No. I faced my fears--- or some of them ---but they were always there. Now, even when I know I'll get burned, I'm not afraid to touch a hot stove. Or lose my wings fifty stories up. Or kill a bad guy. It's like total freedom, Max."

Suddenly she wasn't so sure. "Sounds pretty dangerous."

"Nah," Terry smirked. "Just because I'm not afraid to touch a stove doesn't mean I will."

Max arched her brows.

"Trust me, it's a good thing. I'll be a better Batman--- the best Batman. I've got a few other ideas, too. Some I'll need help with." He saw she was waiting, so he said simply, "We're telling Dana."

Max tried to jump to her feet, and nearly fell over in her excitement. She laughed happily. "You're slammin' me!"

"No joke. Serious."

"Terry, that's awesome! You're sure she won't kill you?"

"I guess we'll find out." He flexed his fingers. "So, got any ideas how to break it to her gently? Or do I give her the old fearless approach…"

"You just leave all of it to me! I've been planning this for months," Max babbled, racing to her dresser. She yanked a drawer open and rifled for clothes. "There are a million ways! Oh, well, I'll tell you all about them on the way to school. Get out of my room so I can change and I'll be right there."

Her excitement was very amusing. Bowing cordially, Terry backed through the doorway, although not fast enough for Max, apparently. She pushed him.

"How about we stop for sub sandwiches on the way?" he asked.

"Sounds great! Give me five minutes. Er… maybe ten. I need to put on my makeup."

"_You_ wear---" The door slammed in his face.

"_Sure_ I wear makeup!"

Max dressed quickly, shaking with the excitement of it all. Finally, they would tell Dana! It would be worth it just to see all the spats end, not to mention the lying. Dana would probably be very upset that Max had known, but Max would smooth that over quickly enough. Oh, this was so exciting! When the phone rang, she dove across her bed to pick it up. "Hello?"

"It's Wayne," came the growl. "Don't say anything. Just respond with a yes or no. Is Terry there?"

Max paused, confused. "Yes. Do you want to---"

"Listen to me very carefully. He may seem normal for now, but you need to keep your eye on him. Terry is _not_ well. Don't let him do anything he wouldn't have done yesterday."

"Uh…"

"I'm sure he already has ideas."

"Yes."

"Let's hope none of them involve Dana. Do not let him do anything, do you understand?"

"Uh… okay. But---"

"Do _not_ tell him I called."

"Okay. But---" Max stopped. All she could hear was dead air. _That jerk hung up on me! _She looked at the phone, for a moment, hardly knowing what to think. With a mental groan, she gave in and said to no one, "Okay, Mom. I will. Bye." She hung up.

Terry was still in the hallway when she emerged. "Your mom called?" he asked.

"From work. She wants me to clean the bathroom and stuff after school."

"Great... Hey, you alright?" Terry looked at her suspiciously. "A second ago you were bouncing off the walls."

"Uh… I wore myself out," Max grinned. "Look, uh, Terry… I guess I'm just worried. Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean… she'll kill you."

Terry laughed again, and this time it scared her. "That threat held a lot more power over me yesterday."

"But--- Terry. What if Dana can't handle it? What if your relationship _still _falls apart and she walks away knowing everything? And, and then, what if you tell someone else? How many people will end up knowing? Weren't you explaining to me how it puts people in danger? In fact, isn't that why you won't let me be Batgirl?"

Terry chuckled. "That was just my excuse for not telling you about your terrible street skills."

Max's mouth dropped open.

"Sorry. Being fearless really takes the tact out of you. Just calm down, okay? The thing is, it's still my choice. I'm tired of living in secrecy, saving the world, and being rewarded by a slap in the face."

"Great, so why don't you just start fighting without a mask on?"

His eyes narrowed. "Are you on my side, or not?"

Max took a deep breath. What she was about to say, she did not believe at all. "You realize that if you tell her, she'll know I've been covering for you all along."

Terry didn't soften. "Yeah…?"

"So she'll kill me, too."

"Yeah…"

"I've been risking my friendship with Dana for _you_, buster. If you're willing to risk that… well, you're not the friend I thought you were."

Terry just glared at her. "Funny how a phone call about 'cleaning the bathroom' could change your mind so suddenly. And after months about arguing this."

She swallowed. "…I'm not saying we shouldn't _tell _her! Just, it should happen gradually. Let me plan it out, okay? We should give it a couple days' thought."

"Fine. I'll put it off a while. For _your_ sake, scaredy-Max. But nothing's changed."

He marched toward the door. Biting her lip, Max followed him. She couldn't believe she'd just fought against telling Dana the truth. _This had better be worth it, Wayne…_


	7. Conspiracies

A/N: Heyyyy guys… sooo… there's this thing called Easter break, right? I kinda forgot to mention that I wouldn't actually be free. Instead my Bible school choir went on a tour. To Yoo-rope. It was good, but exhausting, but people got saved so it's worth the $2,200 they charged us. (Seriously!) And then, wouldn't you know it, wouldn't let me upload the document.

But here's your chapter. I'm really sorry about all that. Thank you, everyone, for your wonderful reviews and for sticking with me.

* * *

**MEANWHILE  
THE BATCAVE**

"It's me." He used the same stoic tone he'd always used with her. Still, she probably knew something was wrong. She probably knew that only a disaster would force him to call her.

"Bruce," said Barbara Gordon, dryly. "What a surprise. Is some freak hanging from my windowsill?"

"I need you to check some old files manually. On the Scarecrow's anti-fear spray."

"Maybe I'm busy."

"It's important."

"It's always important. To _you._"

"I need the antidote as quickly as possible."

A stunned pause. He hung up, knowing his words would haunt her. Knowing he'd given her no choice.

**LATER  
HAMILTON HILL HIGH**

First hour, Terry had AP Algebra with Max. A midterm, and he was actually looking forward to it. Terry had always enjoyed watching other people sweat. He'd always been good at math, too, but Mr. Gerard wasn't the greatest teacher. Recalling the balding, bespectacled man, and his bitter sarcasm, Terry decided to have a little fun by entering class late.

As usual, Gerard had some special comments just for him. "Well, we are honored by your presence, Mr. McGinnis. I'd like to see you after class. Again."

"Why not say it now?" Terry asked. "Tell me how disappointed you are."

Max's whisper was prominent in the silence. "Terry!"

Mr. Gerard looked at him slowly, adjusting his glasses with the usual frown of derision. "You're _good_ with numbers, Mr. McGinnis. You just don't apply yourself."

"Wow! No one's ever said it quite that way before," Terry drawled. "How else could you say it? I have untapped potential? I must be having trouble at home? I'm possibly into something I shouldn't be? Or maybe it's just the fact that you barely understand this subject yourself."

The other students exchanged glances, some moaning apprehensively, all grinning. Mr. Gerard's eyes darted briefly, as if he sensed the respect level in the room depleting. "Maintain the smart-aleck, Terry. It will only get you another demerit file."

"Actions speak louder than words," Terry smirked.

"Then I'll show you some action!" Mr. Gerard stomped to his desk, typing violently.

Max clutched Terry's shoulder. "You call _that_ lying low?" she hissed.

"I'm holding _back_," he bragged.

"And it got you detention!"

"Wayne always bails me out." Terry smiled as Gerard returned with a disk. "Thanks, teach."

**LATER  
PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE**

Principle Nakamura gazed coldly across his desk at the usual perpetrator. The boy sitting before him did not look quite so guilty or tired today, which secretly satisfied the old principle. He'd always suspected Terry's turnaround had been an act. Few teachers had ever found the boy's "change" to vary much from his original problems: a smart mouth and a lack of responsibility. There were only different excuses now.

Terry had taken the liberty of making himself comfortable, slouching in the chair with one leg swung over the armrest. He was calling his boss, that aggravating enabler Bruce Wayne. That _fool._ He obviously cared nothing for the boy's education or welfare.

Officially, Terry had to inform Mr. Wayne that he would be late for work. In reality, he was getting himself excused from detention. What would it be today? A meeting? A twisted knee? The long-awaited "mild heart attack"?

The principle watched helplessly, impatiently.

"That will be fine," Bruce said.

Terry frowned. This was the original Batman he was talking to, the die-hard, never-quit, there's-always-another-way, one-night-always-makes-a-difference guy. It was _never_ alright to start patrol late. It was _never_ alright to lose even one life. For once, Terry had thought they might understand each other, work toward cleaning up the city.

Apparently not. And that didn't make sense.

Terry spoke slowly. "You sure…?"

"No rush. Things are quiet. How late will you be?"

"About… two hours."

"I'll see you then." Bruce hung up, and Terry couldn't help but wonder if he'd done it with a smile.

Principle Nakamura raised his brows. "Well?"

"It's… it's alright," Terry said, his mind still on Bruce.

Nakamura froze up for a moment. "Oh! Well. I hope you enjoy your time with us, Mr. McGinnis."

**THAT AFTERNOON  
DETENTION HALL**

Terry dragged himself through some overdue homework. Every moment or so he would remember the real world, the recent developments--- the fact that he _still _wasn't getting a chance to use his new abilities. That was no coincidence.

He accessed the internet and searched for information on Bruce's encounters with the Scarecrow. All he could find on the anti-fear subject, however, was that it had been a failed, one-time shot. The most anyone knew was that it had been a reversal of Scarecrow's usual attempts.

"I know that already," Terry grumbled. What he needed to know was what kind of experience Bruce had had with the stuff. He wasn't about to access the Bat Computer, not when Bruce was probably monitoring it.

Bruce was dedicated, above all, to fighting the slime that corrupted Gotham's streets, and he'd said himself that they should stop at nothing to ensure the greater good. Yet here Terry was, more empowered than he'd ever been before, and Bruce was stalling. Why? _Why?_

Because Bruce didn't trust him. Terry frowned. That very moment, Bruce could be planning the administration of some kind of antidote. It would certainly explain why he welcomed the thought of Terry getting detention. He wanted time to prepare.

That was it, alright.

Terry shook his head, a nasty smile on his face. He would just have to do some of his own preparing.


	8. Preparations

**POLICE STATION  
STORAGE**

The commissioner felt foolish, shunning her responsibilities to dig through old files in a dimly lit storage room. A city-wide blackout and hack-attack had ruined many of their police files, months ago, and the cases that were no longer relevant--- such as those covering the Scarecrow's failed exploits ---had not yet been logged, but were instead hiding somewhere in this mess of dusty file cabinets.

Sighing heavily, Barbara shoved another drawer closed.

Her phone rang in her pocket. Almost hoping it would be a good excuse to stop her search, she answered it quickly. "Commissioner Gordon."

"Have you found anything?" Bruce asked.

"Do you honestly think the police would have samples if you didn't?" she complained. "I've been searching for hours."

"I had a sample. It was stored wrong. It's evaporated."

"That doesn't sound like you."

The reply was terse. "It isn't."

"Oh," Barbara breathed. She grew quiet, shoulders slumped. "Alfred…"

"He never would have complained, but…"

"His eyes. Yeah."

For a moment, they said nothing. It was the first time in decades that the silence had been without tension, filled with old memories of an old friend. No, an old hero. They would all have been dead without him. He had gone one day in his sleep without any glory.

All too soon, however, Bruce was back to business. "I need a sample, the formula, a statement from the Scarecrow. Anything. Who was in charge of records that year?"

"Why do you need it?" Barbara asked. "We still have the Jokerz, of course, but somehow I doubt you're particularly concerned about..." She paused. "No. Was someone else…?"

"Yes."

"Who, Bruce? Who?" she pressed.

He answered grudgingly, as if she had no right to know. "Terry."

Barbara closed her eyes. "Oh, no…"

"He hasn't done anything drastic… Yet. But he's already merited after-school detention, and as long as there's a chance he's not being careful, we're all in danger."

Barbara opened another file cabinet.

**HAMILTON HILL HIGH  
5:04 PM**

Backpack slung over his shoulder, Terry left the school feeling angry and betrayed. Not just by Bruce--- he was almost used to that ---but by Max as well. It hadn't taken long to figure out that she, too, had no faith in him. He'd only suspected since six in the morning.

Now all he wanted to do was find a nice, quiet place to work on his suit. Then he'd _really_ start cleaning this city. There was a lot to do. A lot to make up for. People just had to get out of his way!

Starting with the three kids in his path.

Nelson Nash, Rick Mullin, and a disgruntled Gary Thompson each stood at the base of the steps… where Nelson's car _would_ have been parked. With a mixture of self-congratulation and annoyance, Terry approached them. "Hey guys. Beautiful day."

"Sure," Nelson smirked. "Congratulations on your detention, McGinnis. I knew you couldn't stay out of trouble for long."

"Thanks Nash, but why didn't you bring a cake?"

"You're all talk," said the coward whose life Terry had saved two or three times. "One thing I've noticed, though. You never _act_." Nelson shoved him.

Terry took a step back to keep his balance. He thought of all the different ways he could take Nelson out…

"Terry!"

He paused. Jared Tate approached at a fast walk, his hand falling heavily on Terry's shoulder. "Did you leave your cycle at Max's again?"

Terry never took his eyes from Nelson. "Yeah. Why."

"Do you want a ride over there?"

"In a sec."

"Playing Mr. Charity, Tate?" Nelson sneered. "Just like your new dad, huh?"

Jared flinched slightly, his own anger stirred.

"Sure picked a good victim! Terry here couldn't even afford that cycle he stole. Isn't that right, McGinnis?"

Terry smirked. "At least it doesn't get smashed by golems, crashed into schools or blown up by freaks."

Nelson's smile evaporated. "You wanna know how it feels?"

"Terry, let's go," Jared said.

"In a sec," Terry repeated.

Nelson was taking off his jacket, which he shoved into the arms of Gary. "Come on, McGinnis. Just like old times. Give me your best---"

There was the sickening sound of ruptured bone and flesh. Nelson staggered to one side, his head turned awkwardly. Now, losing all sense of balance, he toppled to the ground. Like a rock. All eyes locked on Terry. He'd hardly seemed to move. The blow had been swift and precise. Rick and Gary knelt over Nelson, examining the nose already beginning to swell, and then looked at Terry, agape.

"_Slag,_ McGinnis!"

"You cronies want it next?" Terry asked. How he liked this openness! Now it was evident: There was no difference between Batman and Terry.

Nelson groaned loudly and lifted his heavy head, eyes fluttering. Gary peered down at him again. "Man, it looks broken!"

"What looks broken? My nose? My nose is broken!"

Smirking, Terry turned to share a look with Jared. He realized Dana was standing behind him. Both looked solemn, disappointed, and only a little surprised. Terry's smugness melted into resentment.

"You scare us sometimes, Terry," Jared said. Then he merely shook his head and strolled away.

Dana remained frozen for a moment. He met her gaze. She turned to follow Jared.

Terry's fists knotted. With one last, warning glance at Nelson's buddies, he marched away, fingering one strap of his backpack.

A/N: That citywide "blackout and hack-attack" was detailed in the events of Lost Soul, one of my favorite episodes.


	9. Downward Spiral

A/N: Some of you seem to be hoping that the effects of the gas will wear off. Nope. Not until you get the antidote.**  
**

**THAT NIGHT  
THE BATMOBILE**

They were playing games. Bad information, faulty directions on Bruce's part. Passive obedience and silence on Terry's part. He flew around and around in a tiny circle, pretending to look for trouble that they both knew wasn't there. Each was planning his next move.

"Sure is strange, how the streets are so… quiet," Terry said finally. "If you were anyone else, I'd say you made a _mistake_."

"Be patient," Bruce responded.

"For what? The rabid squirrel uprising that your contacts predicted? Nothing's happening here, Bruce. And you know it."

"I can't remember the last time nothing happened on a night like this. Be patient."

Terry was on his last shred of self-control. "And what are _you_ doing?"

"I'm working on a new sedative."

"Sure." Terry swung the controls around, turning the Batmobile toward the more urban side of the city. Autopilot seized control and turned him back again. Without missing a beat, he pressed the button that opened the cockpit. Pressed it a few more times. It wasn't working! Terry soon realized that he couldn't even get out of his seatbelt.

Terry glared at the vid-screen. Bruce stared back knowingly. They were done play-acting.

Terry hunched over and folded his arms behind his neck. He braced his feet on the ground, and grinned as he saw dark realization dawn on Bruce's face. _No!_

"Oh yes." He fired his rocket boosters. Immediately his body thrust upward, straining against his seatbelt, yanking the chair free to crash through the windshield with him. Into the sky.

Claws shredded at the belt, and the suit underneath it, until he was finally free. The chair plummeted to the ground. He flew away.

**MEANWHILE  
SECOND NATIONAL BANK**

"Time's up! We have to go. Now!"

The five men in the vault looked up, their crimson eyes flashing in the dim light. With a shimmer of pale green scales they finished shoving valuables and cred cards into their sacks and turned to run after their leader, the Kobra in an orange robe. Their blasters swept the dark lobby quickly, threateningly, as they made their way through.

Outside there waited a pair of hoverblades. Three of them climbed onto each craft and sealed the doors. They took to the air.

"That will _begin_ to teach them to refuse business with Kobra," snarled the leader. He increased speed.

"Begin?" echoed the subordinate in the passenger's seat. "What else do we have to do?"

"We're going to make a little house call," the leader said smugly, raising his own sack. A dark, sleek form slipped out and spread its hood. There was a venomous hiss. A hiss that would be the last sound their former associate heard.

The man in the back pointed. "Look!"

It was hard to discern at first, but as the figure in the air drew nearer, they recognized the looming red wings. The Batman was coming straight at them.

The leader smirked and pressed a button on his dashboard. Two automated rifles rose from the nose of their craft. A flash of rapid-fire lasers filled the air, chasing the object that dipped and bobbed in front of them, but within seconds was ever-near. He tucked into a somersault and rolled up the hood, up the windshield, flipping into the air again. The guns chased him and shot one another.

There was a second of utter shock. The Kobra had no chance to react before a metal shriek grated in their ears, and the craft distorted. Batman was relentlessly tearing at the outer body of the hoverblade. A sheet of metal ripped loose, and he tossed it carelessly into a passing window. Then his hands thrust into the craft and ripped out a sizable chunk of the engine.

"Hurry! Faster!" the leader had been crying, as they tried to shoot through their own windshield. It had cracked too slowly. Now they were descending.

"Ejection seats!" someone cried, jamming the button. It was no longer working.

Staring through the cracked glass, the leader could have sworn that Batman still sat there, on the hood, grinning at them…

He disappeared. Then came the crash, and their world became one of fire and death.

The second hoverblade had paused to watch its counterpart crash. It was mere moments before it turned to race onward.

These men had no warning before a handful of bombs struck their windshield. It shattered inward, spewing shards of glass that lacerated their costumes, their bared skin. In the chaos, two hands closed around the pilot's neck like iron clasps. The nearest man raised a gun, only to be kicked in the head.

The third agent finally got a shot in, and their adversary took it in the chest. He flew against the dashboard with a cry of pain. Then--- horror ---he merely gritted his teeth and raised one arm, firing a batarang from his wrist. The gunman took it in the neck.

Batman damaged the controls and dove out of the craft. Soon it was descending just as its counterpart had. Flying to the haven of a rooftop, Batman perched and watched the hoverblade's descent toward the street. It bounced once, then twice more, before coming to a scraping, screaming halt against a building. Several little fires sprang up.

Batman nodded to himself proudly. He turned to go; but paused when a plaintive cough caught his attention. It came from below.

One weak, battered figure climbed over the broken glass of the windshield. Then he slumped, his lower half hanging out limply. Still, there was life in him, if only for a moment.

Batman flew down to him. Coldly, he took a step closer.

"What… a fool… Who are… you…" The agent paused to cough blood. "To challenge… Kobra?"

"Who am I?" Batman asked. He laughed carelessly. "I'm Terry McGinnis. I live on 3968 Marshall Avenue, Apartment 713. And I'm seventeen years old."

"Seven…!" At this insult, the Kobra gasped a deep, ragged lungful of air. Perhaps he was angry. Perhaps he was simply dying. Better make sure.

Batman knelt down in front of him. He winced when a deep, soft voice hissed in his ear.

"McGinnis," said Bruce. "Kill this man, and you kill everything Batman stands for."

Terry didn't answer. Gently, he framed the Kobra's face in his hands. Then, suddenly, jerked his head to one side. Much too far to one side.

The neck made a satisfying crack.


	10. Severed

**LATER  
CITY SKY**

Bruce cursed Terry vehemently. He cursed him on every level. Actually, he was so passionate, he almost sounded insane. But Terry had endured many a lecture in his lifetime. He could curse with the worst of them. Conviction was neither what he needed or wanted. It only made him angry.

"Don't tell me the Great Bruce Wayne is feeling compassion now," he sneered. "For Kobra!"

"They're more valuable alive! A corpse can't explain a hidden agenda, or be frightened into divulging secrets!"

"Or shoot someone, or commit any crime ever again!"

"You can't use another person's actions to justify yours!"

He didn't answer. He landed on a rooftop and charged across it, anger pumping new strength through his system. Even he knew it was a dangerous combination, to be both angry and fearless. But Bruce didn't understand. He didn't understand--- Terry _had_ to do this.

Bruce's voice finally calmed somewhat, although it remained raw from the thought of what his protégé had done in his name. "Terry. I know you don't see any difference. But you have to trust me on this. Your condition affects your reasoning more than you realize."

"My _condition!_" Terry jumped onto a smokestack, now cool, perching on the rim as he overlooked the city. "I know you think I'm _insane_ as well as _incompetent, _Bruce! But you know what? I don't care!"

He opened his wings and flew on. Voices and commotion echoed from an alley below him. He plunged into a crowd of gangsters called the T's.

He fought. Whirled, punched, and kicked as if his every action were being carefully judged and evaluated. It was one of the best group fights he'd ever performed in, really, and it eve had narration. Bruce's low voice spoke as he fought.

"You aren't afraid to kill. You aren't afraid to die. You aren't afraid of losing an innocent, or a family member, or the city. That doesn't sound like a problem to you?"

"You aren't scaring me yet," Terry quipped. A gangster swung a chain at him. He caught it, swinging the gangster headlong into a brick wall. His other hand soon plunged into a young man's face. He then freed both arms and jumped, kicked two opponents, and landed in a crouch, ducking the swing of a club.

"I'm giving you a one last chance," Bruce sneered. "Call it sentiment."

Terry laughed humorlessly. He caught a knife as it flew at him. "You're still trying to be intimidating, aren't you?"

**MEANWHILE  
THE BATCAVE**

Bruce was well aware of the possible ramifications.

His tired, pale eyes turned slowly to the lone red button waiting under a glass case. He flipped the case open. And then, knowing it might mean the boy's death, he pressed the button.

What would he tell Mrs. McGinnis?

**GOTHAM ALLEY**

"I'm waiting," Terry teased in a sing-song voice. He knocked a grizzled man to the ground, then whirled on impulse, picked up a trash can, and chucked it at the first person he saw.

Silence on the radio.

"Well?" Terry asked as he tripped a running girl.

The fight stopped abruptly. He realized he was the only one standing.

"What," came the soft, incredulous whisper.

Terry realized what had happened, and broke into a grin. "What's the matter, old man? The kill switch not working? I spent an hour disabling the fail-safes in every last servo motor before I went on patrol. Figured you'd try something like this, and I was right. So _now_ what are you going to do?"

Quickly and quietly, a girl climbed to her feet and raced down the alley. A batarang streaked after her. It split in two, stretching a black cord between its pieces, which carried her along. She was pinned to the wall.

Batman approached her slowly. "Sorry, sweetie. Hope I didn't hurt you. Amazing how much force my wrist gauntlet can toss a batarang with." He leaned in close, holding his fist up to her head. She whimpered, trembling. "Let's see what it'll do up close."

Bruce spoke evenly. "Fine, Terry, kill her. Prove your insanity."

Terry's smirk fell just a little. Suddenly, it was no longer a matter of fear, or even of being a good vigilante. Bruce had made it a matter of pride. "Touche," he whispered.

The girl's round eyes just stared at him, utterly confused. He backed off and tilted his head back. "Alright. As evil as you seem to think I am, I only want good to come of this. So I'll back off, just to prove you wrong. But it's not happening again." He turned to walk away, springing one of his claws. "And I won't need _this_ anymore…"

There was a crackle, and a shredding of tough fabric. A small radio bounced to the ground.


	11. The Showdown

**LATER  
****THE BATCAVE**

Bruce was working furiously when he heard the clock door slide open. He glanced up hopefully, secretly savoring a flood of relief as Barbara appeared at the top of the stairs. He continued to work as she descended toward him. Her step carried much more urgency than usual.

She held out a small case. It looked like an asthma breather. "How is he?"

Bruce took the breather without a word.

"I'm not asking as the police commissioner."

He still said nothing, working as if she weren't there.

Barbara sighed. "Alright. You got me. So you'll be going after him alone?"

"Yes," he replied. They both knew the grave implications of that one little word. "I'll administer the antidote however I can. Or…"

He fell silent. Barbara's blue eyes flew to his. "Or what? Slag, Bruce, you're not going to kill him!"

Bruce said nothing.

Barbara couldn't mask her horrified expression. Soon it melted into one of sad acceptance, and forcibly, she gave a nod. Just one ominous nod.

She walked meekly out of the cave.

**LATER  
****CITY STREETS**

"Come on, this one's infamous!"

The petty criminal laughed in Batman's face--- quite a feat for a man hanging upside-down from the balcony of one of Gotham's tallest hotels. The vigilante, bending low in an effort to intimidate him, gritted his teeth angrily.

"Sure I'm scared," the thief continued. "About as scared as a kid on a rollercoaster ride--- but not more. You're gonna drop me. I'll scream. Then you'll swoop in and save me, because everyone knows the Bat don't kill."

How Terry would have loved to prove him wrong in that moment. Unfortunately, he still needed information, and much as he hated the thought, Bruce was right: a corpse can't tell you its secrets. If he wanted to track down the leader of the Tong, he'd have to make this guy sing somehow.

A delightful idea came to mind.

"You're right," Batman said, straightening to slowly unfold a batarang. "I can't kill you, because you have information I need."

He bent over and seized the thief's hand.

"Hey, what are you---" The man's face paled. The blade of the batarang sliced his finger. "AAAAAUUUGHHH! No! No! What are you doing!"

"You'd think it was obvious," said Batman, and he sawed at the finger some more.

With one last scream, the thief passed out.

Batman paused. He turned and stepped through the open balcony door, into the hotel room where he'd found his new playmate. There was a plastic cup by the sink…

The thief awakened to a splash of cold water.

"Now, where were we?" Batman asked.

"No, no!" the man screamed. "The Tong. We were at the Tong, right?"

"Good boy."

"The last I knew, he was back in Hong Kong. He's got a high rise apartment, some say. Or a mountainside mansion."

"I don't want rumors," Batman snarled. He gripped the man's bleeding fingers tightly.

"No, please… no, please…"

"I can get those off anyone on the street. Who do you know that has real connections with Tong?"

"Th-there's Ed Hsuan."

"Care to spell that for me?"

"H-S-U-A-N. He runs an Old Town brothel, the Funtown Hotel. But he and Tong are tight. It's really just an undercover job 'cuz Tong suspects someone in the brothel department is holding back creds from him."

"Wow. You really can sing, can't you, fat boy?" He brought the blade of his batarang close. "Anything else you have to tell me?"

"That… Tong is powerful. You already crossed him once before. Get in too deep and you'll be dead before you know it. You're not the first vigilante he's assassinated."

Batman began untying the man from the balcony. "Do I look scared?"

"What are you doing!"

He held the end of the rope now, dangling the man over the street. "I don't need you anymore."

He let go.

The man's scream was long and chilling. Batman felt a stab of guilt, as if part of him wilted at the thought of what he'd done. At the same time, though, it was satisfying. Who knew how many deaths that man had been, or could have been, responsible for? Now that Batman was sure he was with the Tong, that is.

He didn't stay to watch the man fall. He didn't notice the burly arm that snaked out from one of the hotel buttresses, catching the man before he could reach the ground.

Batman returned to the hotel room and accessed the man's computer. There were a lot of goodies here, and he downloaded them onto the suit's computer. What he really wanted, however, was a simple internet connection. He couldn't quite remember the address to the Funtown Hotel.

_"Are you afraid yet?"_

Batman's head snapped to the left. He could have sworn he'd heard a whisper. Glancing around the room cautiously for a moment, he decided it must have been a vid-screen playing too loud in the next room.

But then the voice returned. It felt as if it was right in his ear. _"In the words of Matthew Henry, 'He is most in danger who does not know it.'"_

"Bruce!"

He turned toward the voice. Mistake. Bruce had thrown it from the opposite direction, and now he lunged out of the shadows, swinging a giant fist.

Crack! Terry could have almost believed that his head had snapped off. Pain burned in his neck. He lashed out blindly, and felt his foot connect with something. A plastic container bounced to the floor. The antidote! He dove for it, just as Bruce did, and their combined weight crushed it to pieces.

"Ha!"

A lamp stand struck the back of his head.

Terry blinked awake. He wondered if he'd been out for hours. He wondered if he was still fearless. Then he realized that he wasn't _afraid_ that he might have lost his advantage. What he felt was simple curiosity, and then rage at the thought of Bruce's meddling.

He must have only passed out for a second. Everything was as it had been before, except for a tall shadow of armor standing by the balcony, waiting for him. Terry's eyes focused a moment later. It was Bruce's exosuit. He almost laughed at the thought, knowing how bad it was on Bruce's heart.

He climbed to his feet. Regained his balance. "Alright," he huffed. "Let's do this."

Wordlessly, Bruce moved to a defensive stance.

Terry took a running jump--- a dropkick. He was caught by the ankle and swung around, released to go flying over the street and through a billboard. Terry righted himself when his wings sprang open, and he fired his rocket boosters, this time coming at Bruce fist-first. They blocked one another's punches. Terry landed one of his own a moment later, with a clang on the suit's mouthless helmet.

He was outsized, but the suits were equal in strength. Bruce staggered before grabbing Terry by the shoulders. They knocked heads, and Terry groaned, feeling his legs weaken. A backhand struck him a moment later, and he wilted to the rooftop.

Sching! A batarang misfired. Terry rose and twisted, firing several sharp blades at his old mentor. One ricocheted. One buried itself deep into Bruce's chest. It didn't seem to cause any damage. Bruce charged at him, and he fired one last time. The batarang severed a tube in the exosuit's arm, and it spewed steam loudly.

"Gotcha!"

While Bruce was still off-balance, Terry jumped over him, grabbing the blunt steel ears to yank his head back. "You really thought you could kick me around like another one of your dogs!"

Bruce's good arm groped for him. He avoided it. He managed to brace his feet on the roof and pull Bruce over his head, flipping him through the air.

There was a terrible crash as Bruce landed on the roof of a different building. Terry alighted in front of him. He felt bittersweet satisfaction at the sight: A sparking, damaged suit lay in a spider web of cracked asphalt. The roof had been badly damaged by his heavy fall.

"You really don't get it?" Terry panted. Fighting the guilt with his anger. "All I ever got from you was criticism, reminders that I could _never_ measure up, I was _always_ that stupid kid with a prison record, the one whose last words to his father were, 'I hate you.' All I wanted was to make up! Make a difference! I was just to _scared_ to admit it." Terry gazed solemnly at the wrecked suit. Was Bruce even conscious to hear this? "I wanted to be _you._"

He stepped closer, looking down in disgust. "What was I thinking?"

A batarang slipped into each of his hands. He gripped them tightly and raised them high. Poised to strike.

Bruce's hand reached up suddenly. Terry was choking. In shuddering, awkward jerks, Bruce was rising, now towering, holding Terry's mask close before his own. His muffled, gruff voice echoed through.

"To… the death… then."

He flung Terry's head against his knee. As the unused batarangs clattered away, Bruce lifted Terry again an punched him, sending the boy flying across the roof. He struck the wall of a taller building nearby, and for a moment his body stuck there.

Bruce was charging him. Terry bent his legs in front of his body. At the last moment, he fired his rockets, pummeling Bruce backward again. Then he pounced on him, fist raised to strike.

"Frag you, old dreg!"

Bruce raised a hand, in defense, Terry thought--- until a tube poked from under his wrist gauntlet, and a faint, white puff hissed into Terry's face.

For a moment, Terry didn't understand.

Then the fear hit him like a bomb. He rose, staggered back, shocked at himself. The weight of the past night bore down on him, and he _feared_. Oh yes, he feared! Would he ever outlive his own deeds? Did he deserve to die now?

_What have I been doing?_

"To the death," Bruce had said. What had he meant by that? Bruce didn't kill…

Then he saw Bruce's arm flop limply, and his head fall back. Terry realized Bruce had meant his own death.

"Oh no," he whispered, and felt his voice tremble. He ran to Bruce again and knelt over him, prying open the breastplate, removing the helmet. "Bruce!"

The strained, pale face below him did not seem to comprehend. Shallow, tepid breathing quavered past the old man's lips. Terry patted Bruce's coat pockets anxiously. "Where's your medicine, Bruce? Bruce!"

"Won't be… enough…"

He was having a heart attack. He _must_ have been. He was having a heart attack.

He was dying, and all Terry could do was sit there and watch.


	12. The Death of a Hero

**THE NEXT DAY  
****GOTHAM GENERAL HOSPITAL  
****9:45 AM**

Dawn never made it past the drawn shades.

Terry slumped in the chair, his hands flopped in his lap, staring at the stiff old body under the sheet. Guilt and fear overwhelmed him. Guilt and fear. The old enemies he thought he'd escaped. How could he ever right what he'd done the night before? And what about the future? Terry couldn't begin to think of all the things he would have to repair by himself--- the suit's failsafe. The Batmobile. The… everything.

His actions kept haunting him. He'd had such disregard for everyone but himself. How had a lack of fear changed his convictions so? Was personal redemption really all that mattered to him, and fear the only thing that kept him in line? Did he believe in nothing?

He'd been wrong about himself. He wasn't driven by morality, but by shame.

Barbara had dropped by a few hours ago, and he had mumbled similar complaints to her. "Simple psychology," she'd said in her rough, low voice. "Working at the police station all day, I sometimes get to the point where I think I'm only seeing one wounded animal lashing out at another. Do you ever see that in people? Even in their most subtle actions?"

He'd shrugged.

"I know about the Kobra agent," she said. "And I think I know why you did it."

He still said nothing, but he gave her a questioning look. Almost begging her to make sense of all this.

Barbara tucked her hands into her deep trench coat pockets, averting her eyes to the motionless Bruce. "You've made yourself your biggest enemy, McGinnis. By projecting all of that hatred onto the Kobra agent, you found the perfect scapegoat. Someone who worships reptiles, sacrifices human beings. I'm no Leslie Tompkins, but I'd wager a guess that you could more easily justify your own past by executing that man for his."

Terry had to admit it made sense, though he didn't want to say so. Barbara had asked him if he believed in morals, absolutes. Eventually, Terry was forced to admit that no, he didn't.

"That's what I thought," she whispered. He pressed for an explanation. "If you don't believe in anything, then oftentimes pride and convenience are the only things stopping you from committing a crime. Trust me. I've seen great parents, comfortable CEO's like Derek Powers, and even myself turn on other human beings because… well, life sometimes seems meaningless, and it's all about survival of the fittest.

"Working as commissioner has forced me to change how I think of people. I can't believe they're basically good anymore. Not only will it get me killed, it's just not logical. People do things their own way every day. You find them evading taxes, selling drugs, abusing kids… or even doing common little things, like cheating on their spouses."

Barbara's voice trailed off after that, and she walked toward the door, consumed in her own thoughts. Terry stayed in the chair next to Bruce's bed. He was still unable to look at the old man's pale face. He just mulled over Barbara's words.

If he was really going to protect people, he'd have to start believing in absolutes. Whether they existed or not. Relative morals could justify almost anything, especially if you were your own judge. Just look where a little fearlessness had taken him.

He shuddered, feeling sick, and covered his face. "I'm sorry, Wayne," he whispered. "I played life my own way, and look where it got me. How am I going to make up for _this?_ How am I going to even… even fix the Batmobile when…"

His voice had been getting smaller and smaller. Exhausted, he gave up trying to speak. What was the use of constructing a sentence…

"You shouldn't let your fears blind you."

A long pause. Terry still didn't--- couldn't ---look at Bruce. He didn't even nod. For an indefinite period of time, the silence continued.

"I never…" Bruce cleared his tired throat. "I never treated you any differently than my other protégés." He admitted, "I've trained you less. I can only teach you so much without fighting you myself, and you may have noticed… I can't really do that."

Terry did not react.

It was funny how imminent death could open the hardest of men. Terry supposed it was fear again. Whatever the reason, Bruce continued. "I'm only saying so because this might be the end. And if it isn't, well, I never want to hear about this again. But if your past had ever mattered to me… you wouldn't be Batman. You… you put up a good fight, McGinnis. What you lack in talent you more than make up for in potential."

Terry dared to give Bruce a sideways glance. This was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime event. Bruce was being straightforward about things. "What are you saying?" Terry asked. "That you respect me?"

Bruce still evaded that one. "Do you respect _me?_ _That's_ the question."

It was a very awkward moment. Terry couldn't answer that. He'd look even more pathetic… or was that the fear talking? Swallowing the remainder of his beaten pride, Terry said, "You know I do."

A pause. Bruce's eyes wandered the room thoughtfully. "If I could still be Batman," he said, "I would. You know that."

"Can't blame you after last night," Terry muttered.

Bruce closed his eyes, mouth drawn tightly. "But if I could choose any successor in the world… it would be you."

Terry nearly choked, and it took all of his poor acting skills to hide his shock and embarrassment. Words escaped him. He found himself sitting dumbly, staring like an idiot, making for another awkward moment.

"Don't get arrogant," Bruce snapped. "As I said, I thought I'd get things straight. There's a lot you'll need to know if I don't pull through."

"Yes, sir," Terry said, beginning to smile. He stood up. "I'll let you rest."

"No. There may be no time for that."

But Terry ignored him, not even glancing back until he reached the door. "Trust me, it can wait." Then he grinned. "By the way, Bruce. The doctor talked to Barbara and I already, before you woke up. He says you'll be fine."

Bruce's shocked look was worth a thousand words, even when it quickly transformed to rage. Terry saluted and stepped out, closing the door.

He strolled down the hallway with a buzz of thoughts in his mind.


End file.
